agree with each other in smoke signals. Brought together to burn the thing that brings them together, 

each in turn interpret the law as aging with it's eyesight failing

Sitting across tables spending nights talking about other nights, 

our eyes unclose like books we've read twice. On the shelves lined with spines, 

the dust collects as scattered ash from an urn unturned, spilling over with somebody regular 

And other such regulars cry ghost and boast of a friend of a friend who saw a strange sight, 

or heard a strange sound, who now whispers tall tales of murder most foul 

The scene hits the moon with a rise from the shelves, alive on the myths of ordinary people past: 

somebody's little girl dreaming of the things she reads, 

or the monsters in her bed who hacked her into blood-meat